


(I hollow myself out to fit you inside)

by Nakimochiku



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/pseuds/Nakimochiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the war they are almost friends. Almost. And then they are something else entirely. They are earthquakes and hurricanes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I hollow myself out to fit you inside)

_“If you stand for nothing, what will you fall for?”_

_The intention is not to fall for anything, least of all Alexander Hamilton._

 

*

 

Burr doesn't know why he waits outside Washington's office. Is he hoping perhaps the general will call him back in? That he’ll get his chance to speak, and he’ll realize Burr’s potential like Montgomery did? Does he hope somehow that Hamilton will make a fool of himself? It's petty and it’s low and it’s wicked, but he wants all those things.

Hamilton bursts out of the office, ecstatic, and Burr bites the inside of his cheek, swallows and starts to walk away, hoping that Hamilton won't see him or, if God is gracious, ignore him entirely.

God isn't gracious.

“Mr. Burr, Sir!” Hamilton chirps, grinning and catching him by the arm. Something is tight and hot in Burr’s chest, rising up his throat, bitter and hard to swallow back down. He clenches his jaw and tries to smile. “Last I heard you were stationed in Quebec! When did you get back?”

“Three days ago.” Burr answers. He looks down at Hamilton’s hand as it rests against his folded arm, fingers digging into the wool of his uniform jacket. It’s an overly familiar touch, and he resists shaking it off to avoid drawing attention to it.

“Three days and you didn’t say a thing! I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you until we met with Washington!” Hamilton is grinning and effervescent, like they’re actually friends. Burr doesn't have the heart to say he'd been avoiding him and his gang. “Laurens is here too, everyone is! Catch a drink with us?” His hand grips a little harder, tugging just once to urge him in some direction, when all Burr wants to do is go back to his miserable quarters and contemplate Washington’s crass dismissal alone.

To contemplate the opportunity Hamilton unwittingly stole from him without those big dark eyes right there, making him forget he was even angry.

“I shouldn’t…” He murmurs, looking back towards the rest of camp, tempted to pull his arm away.

“Nonsense! We -- I --  haven’t seen you in so long. We can catch up, you can tell me about the battle at Quebec. I heard it was a mess.”

“It was, but--”

“I heard you were a real hero.”

“If that’s what they’re saying.” Burr murmurs. “But--”

“So come! Get a drink! Tell us all about it!” Hamilton tugs his arm, blinks at him, and Burr realizes he doesn't know why he bothered fighting.

He couldn't have said no. He couldn't have stayed angry. Hamilton, like a hurricane, whips all his thoughts and feelings from him with gale force winds, reduces him to something primal, something that shoots first and asks second, something that bites the hand that feeds.

“Alright.”

 

*

 

“Arnold, that rat bastard!” Mulligan curses, slapping a large palm down over the pockmarked table.

“Ineffectual leader at best, coward at worst.” Laurens sighs.

Burr feels suddenly like he’s said too much, the warmth of the liquor draining from him and leaving him colder than when he started. “I should go.”

“You're lucky to have made it out alive.” Hamilton says, resting his hand on his shoulder, the touch so sudden and searing Burr can’t help but duck out from under it. Hamilton either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, fingers curling in the air.

“The luck of cowards.” Lafayette mumbles, not quite quiet enough for Burr not to hear perfectly.

“Hey. He fought. He killed, just like any of us.” Hamilton jabs a finger under Lafayette's nose, who just shrugs.

“I should really go.” He knows when he isn’t wanted.

“Oui. Do us the favour.”

“I'll come with you.” Hamilton shoots Lafayette a dirty look, as though to say _play nice_. Hamilton’s never once played nice his entire life.

Burr doesn't wait for Hamilton to gather his coat. He steps out of the army drinking hole, relishes the fresh air in his lungs and realizes just how much the tent had smelled of liquor and dried blood.

His face is burning. Hamilton's friends have always made him feel like trash, even though he knows, logically, that he’s better than that. Perhaps he hadn't bragged enough? He'd tried to minimize his part, and no one can stand humility. Or maybe he'd bragged too much? It's not like he's ashamed of the good job he did in Quebec. He distinguished himself. He knows it, and no one can stand pride.

The vices and virtues war inside him.

Perhaps they'd have hated him even if he hadn't opened his mouth at all. He regrets going with Hamilton to drink, regrets staying long enough to let the liquor loosen his tongue, Burr regrets everything about Alexander Hamilton and how he makes him feel:

Like he wants to prove himself, like he wants to be worthy--

“You're too humble.” Hamilton laughs beside him as he finally makes it out of the tent. Burr had barely noticed he’d waited for him.

“They'd have punched my teeth in if I'd rubbed my accomplishments in their faces.” Burr smiles humorlessly.

“They could have tried, I would have stood up for you.”

“...Why?”

“Because unlike you, I take a stand for what I believe in. You fought. You did well. Why shouldn’t you congratulate yourself on it? Why shouldn’t you scream to the stars that you’re a hero? I would, if I were one.”

“Of course you would.” Burr doesn’t tell Hamilton that it’s clear enough that he’s a hero, even without a command or commendation. That somehow, no matter how hard Burr tries, Hamilton always seems above him, unreachable. The stars and moon seem closer to him than Hamilton will ever be, standing right here beside him.

“C’mon. I think I got a bottle of something stashed away. Let’s drink, let's celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Burr grumbles, trailing along behind him, weaving through the tents, the alleyways of frozen mud between canvas walls where they can see the dim outline of men, undressing for sleep are cast in shadow.

“Your heroism. My promotion.” Burr blinks. He shouldn't be surprised. He should have known that's why Washington wanted Hamilton.

“Promotion?” he repeats, and hopes his voice doesn't sound so off, so high, so jealous as he thinks it does.

“Washington gave me a place on his staff. His right hand man. I finally got my shot.” Hamilton pushes aside a tent flap and goes digging through a small trunk, filled mostly with papers covered in writing from edge to edge. He pulls out a small bottle of rum with a sound of satisfaction. “I've been told this was good stuff. Knox gave it to me, probably to bribe me onto his staff.”

“Of course he did.” Burr murmurs, standing awkwardly just inside the tent. There's another half made bedroll opposite Hamilton’s, of course. Laurens’ maybe, or Mulligan’s. He wonders if Hamilton will be moved to better accommodations. He hates the taste of jealousy.

Hamilton takes a swig from the bottle and hands it off. Burr sips at it delicately. “Washington said there was a place for you on his staff.” He flops onto his bedroll, making himself comfortable and waving Burr over until he takes a cautious seat at one end. Hamilton's thigh is right there against his, warm through his wool breeches in the chill air.

“He did?”

“He asked about you when we were done talking. I told him how we’d met, about your work at Princeton.”

“What'd you say?”

“That you're level headed, patient and humble. That you're cautious, strict, and well spoken. Respectable in every way. That you and he would get along very well.”

Burr takes another sip of rum to cover his embarrassment, and hands it away. “Thank you.”

“Dont thank me!” Hamilton laughs, slapping Burr’s knee. Always over familiar, too close, too-- “I was only telling the truth, telling him exactly what I thought.” Hamilton takes another swig, and promptly hands it back to Burr. “So we’ve both been promoted. Drink, let's celebrate!”

“I shouldn't--”

“You already started. A gentleman never leaves things half finished, Mr Burr, sir.” Hamilton is beaming at him. Playing with him like he knows. Burr can't stop staring at the curve of his mouth in his guileless grin, at the spark of his eyes and the curl of his long fingers around the neck of the rum bottle. He wants--

Hamilton sits up a little to watch him, so that they are just staring at each other, smiles fading from their mouths as something charges and crackles between them like static. Hamilton's hand finds his knee again. A muscle jumps in Burr’s thigh. He leans a little closer, licks his lips, and Burr tries, really tries, not to look, not to let Hamilton catch him looking.

He wonders fearfully, if he looks half as hungry as Hamilton does. If Hamilton can read his desire on his face.

“Ayyyy!” Burr startles, head whipping around to find Laurens in the tent flap, the shadows of Mulligan and Lafayette behind. “There you are! We thought you were walking Burr home like a maiden!”

Hamilton's hand is still on his knee.

Burr stands and smiles tightly. Hamilton's palm has left a brand on his skin, he can feel the heat of it resonating. “The other way around, I'm afraid. Thank you for the rum, Hamilton.” He steps around Laurens, and thinks, hopes, he imagines the dark slide of all too knowing eyes. “Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight.”

“Night Burr!” Mulligan sings back.

“Yes, bonsoir!”

Aaron Burr regrets Alexander Hamilton with the very fabric of his being.

 

*

 

He avoids Hamilton, removes himself from the memory of that night, from the warmth of it that followed him to his own quarters, kept him awake, the rum roiling in his belly even while he curled around himself beneath his thin wool blanket and tried desperately to forget Hamilton’s hand on his knee, his eyes, how near he was like they were going to--

It seems to him wherever he goes, Hamilton is right there, taunting him. He can feel his eyes on him over Washington’s maps of tactics, he can feel Hamilton’s eyes on him during the General’s Orders, and he wants to scream at him to look away, to look at Laurens, to poke his eyes out just so he doesn't see what he does to him--

“You were awfully quiet during the General’s Orders, Burr!” Laurens guffaws. Burr wants to yell, wants to push Laurens face down in the mud and hold him there. His hands twitch.

“Normally you can’t help but put your piece in.” Mulligan adds.

“Burr never puts his piece in,” Hamilton teases as he passes them all, trailing in Washington’s shadow. He flashes them a smile over his shoulder. “That’s precisely the problem!”

Only Hamilton can make him feel so stupid, even when he doesn’t mean to.

“I’ll try to imitate Hamilton then, and talk until you fall asleep.”

“You can try, if Alex lets you get a word in edgewise to start.” Laurens shouts. They all laugh, and Burr smiles tightly and moves away. Letting Hamilton get a word in is precisely what he’s afraid of.

 

*

 

They move to Dorchester Heights. It’s a strategic move; it offers them a view of the land and control of the waterways, and with Knox’s supplies bolstering the move, Washington makes the decision. They are busy after that, packing camp to move, sending messengers to the far reaches of the colonies and backup to Quebec, where Burr hears they still struggle.

He is more glad than ever to be away.

Burr gets his men in line, marches them neatly away from the siege at Boston to set them climbing the heights. He doesn’t see much of Hamilton for a day and a half, except the back of his head as he rides behind Washington, eyes always somewhere else and not, blessedly, on Burr. It feels almost like relief to be left to his thoughts.

The air is still cold despite the steady creep of spring, and in the shaded groves beneath the trees, the snow still piles in soft crystal pillows, but the earth seems alive with the thaw, and the sun shines bright through the branches.

The rhythm of the march is just repetitive enough to lull him, leaves him space in his mind to analyze. He’s gone over the night a thousand times, it seems. He sees it again even now; Hamilton’s smile, Hamilton’s hand on his knee, Hamilton’s tongue flashing out to wet his lips. He’d been ready to say something, to move closer, to act rashly, and Burr had been ready to let him. He’d been ready to leap first without examining all the consequences.

Hamilton’s a danger to him. But as flame is danger to a moth, he cannot resist him. He is just a single, lonely star, pulled into the orbit of Hamilton’s celestial body, revolving in ever tightening circles until he finds himself unable to pull away.

Hamilton is gravity, he is magnetism, he is some unseen force that Burr’s lonely, flickering star cannot hope to deny. He hates it, wants to crush it, wants so badly to control it.

He grinds his teeth and walks a little faster. He can control this. He is not a star, locked in some predestined path; he is inimitable, he is original. He doesn’t need to be afraid of Hamilton, doesn’t need to duck his eyes like bullets. He can clamp down on this thing, bend it to his will, over come it.

He is in control.

 

*

 

“Mr Burr, sir!” Hamilton calls, waving his hand, breaking into a jog to reach him before Burr can turn away and pretend he didn’t hear him. “Join me for breakfast?”

“I already ate--”

“No you didn’t, and lukewarm tea barely counts. Join me for breakfast.” Hamilton hooks their arms together, dragging him to the large, half open tent they use as a mess. “Your men have already eaten, if that comforts you. We’re late.”

“Well…” Burr sighs. Hamilton won’t take no for an answer, and he has no more excuses. “I suppose.” Hamilton gestures to a seat in a private corner, and hurries off to get them two bowls of watery porridge, more water than grain to spread it thin. Rations are low, supplies are lower, morale is lowest. Burr swirls a spoon in the bowl slowly and watches Hamilton eat with vigour.

“How is it that we can work together, but still never seem to catch each other?” Hamilton asks, scraping up the last bit of his porridge with his spoon. He shoots him a look that says he knows Burr’s avoiding him, and that he had better finish every spoon of his disgusting porridge.

“We don’t have the same duties. I spend most of my time training recruits.”

“From what I hear, they hate you for it.” Hamilton chuckles.

Burr allows himself a smile. “You told Washington I was strict. I’m doing my utmost to live up to your praise of me.” He grimaces as he slurps the porridge, and decides not to prolong the torture and eats it as vigorously as Hamilton had.

“Of course you are. You’re doing well. Your men trust and obey you, respect you.” Hamilton sighs wistfully. “I would love a command.”

“It’s not all fun and games.” Burr says warningly. “There’s no glory.” He remembers carrying Montgomery’s body from the cold streets of Quebec, half blind in the snow, bullets and cannons around him, men screaming, the winter sucking the life from them, Montgomery so heavy on his back, already going cold, lifeless, where he’d once been so smart and kind-- “It’s not what I expected. There’s no glory.”

“There’s glory.” Hamilton assures. He pats his hand, near laces their fingers on the table. His fingers are warm and calloused. Burr wants to move his hand, but he didn’t realize how much he needed a touch so simple until Hamilton gave it to him. He wants to take it at face value, wants to take comfort in it for exactly what it appears to be; friendly, simple. He firmly pushes away thoughts of that night, the roil of rum in his belly. “There’s glory,” Hamilton repeats. “But the thing about glory is that it always comes after. You have to wait for it.”

“Even if it comes, will it be worth it?”

Hamilton shrugs. “You’ll know when you make it out of this, Mr. Burr, sir. Just you wait.”

 

*

 

Something about Hamilton is the wind in the winter, the rain on his face, the rumble and crack of thunder, the sunshine in balmy spring.

It's not fair that Burr wants to bask in Hamilton's presence. He wants to sit at his knee with his head against Hamilton's thigh and listen to the excited pitch and cadence of his voice.

It's not fair that Laurens does just that and Burr burns with jealousy so old and deep he has no name for it except unwanted sin.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Burr says, when Hamilton pauses to smile at him, and Laurens glances up with the lazy confidence of a dozing cat. “I was going to -- I’ll just--” he makes a jerky gesture at the tent flap he just came through, hoping to imply his reluctance to stay.

Hamilton destroys it. He waves his papers at him. “You weren't interrupting anything. I was reciting Laurens’ speech on behalf of his efforts to form a black battalion. Listen, tell me if it's good, I need another opinion.”

“Your own high opinion has always seemed to satisfy you.” Hamilton doesn't even look mollified, he just gestures impatiently for Burr to sit. Burr settles on a crate and listens, watches the soft folds of Laurens’ cheek against Hamilton’s knee, lined from the folds of Hamilton's breeches, Hamilton’s fingers in Laurens’ hair, fiddling with the ribbon holding it back. He hears the argument against slavery, beautifully put, hyperbolic, dragging and yet engaging.

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Laurens. He closes his eyes and does not pretend he is where Laurens currently resides.

“What do you think?”

“Rambling as usual.” Burr replies easily, and stands to go. “I’m sure everyone will love it, provided you actually let Laurens recite it.” They both laugh at him, deep and slow. That's good, he meant to make them laugh, he meant to seem friendly. But he doesn't know why his face burns and something closes his throat.

He is in control. He is in control. He is in control.

He repeats it until he no longer doubts it’s truth.

 

*

 

They eat breakfast together every morning. Sometimes in the company of the rest of Hamilton’s incorrigible friends, sometimes alone, just the two of them in the sleepy predawn, barely talking, barely awake. Burr desperately wishes he knew which he preferred. He selfishly wants Hamilton all to himself, and furiously wishes he’d never seen Hamilton’s face.

Hamilton doesn’t talk so much in the morning, for which Burr is eternally grateful. He comes into the mess rubbing at his eyes when the sun shines into them, so his pupils are small and his brown eyes are gold and amber where they had been bottomless night black pools. Burr looks away, at his porridge as he sets Hamilton’s down before him. It doesn’t do to wax poetic before the sun is even high.

“Late night writing?” He asks just for the sake of something to say. He knows the answer, but he likes the neutral ground, the even footing, the harmlessness of the whole ritual.

“Yeah. I was editing a piece on slavery Laurens handed off to me.” Hamilton smiles at him in thanks, gives the porridge one cursory stir, and slurps it all down in what seems like one go.

“Oh? Laurens writes too? I thought you wrote for him.” Burr wishes, not for the first time, that he had some honey to put in the porridge. Anything to take it from bland grain and water to something edible.

“Only speeches. He isn’t much for public speaking.” Burr makes a small noise of agreement, and they lapse into silence. Burr hurriedly spoons the porridge into his mouth before it can cool and congeal, twisting his face as he does. He thinks, if he makes it out of this war, if he never has to eat porridge again it will be too soon. Hamilton bursts suddenly into laughter across the table, it cracks like a gunshot in the morning stillness of restless bodies just being dragged from sleep.

“What?” Burr wipes at the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief in case there’s something on his face, but Hamilton just shakes his head to say nothing, rests his face in his hand, smile half covered, gazing at him. “What?” he demands.

“Nothing. Nothing bad, I promise.” Hamilton placates, words half muffled by his palm. Burr puts down his spoon, he tries to look serious, but for some reason it just makes Hamilton smile until his face seems about to split. “You make a face when you eat, with every spoonful. It’s kinda… Well, It’s nice to see sometimes you can’t hide your opinion.”

“I don’t like porridge.”  

“Yes, I can see that.” Hamilton sits with his smile half hidden for the rest of breakfast, while Burr tries self consciously to eat without making a face. Somehow, that seems to make Hamilton smile all the brighter.

Burr tingles when Hamilton looks at him like that, and he wishes, truly, he could put a name to the way his eyes twinkle, laughing at him from behind his hand. What control he had is quickly burning up in the fires of Hamilton’s eyes.

 

*

 

Hamilton writes at the table, occasionally taking a swig of his ale. He barely notices when Mulligan steals and promptly drains it, putting the empty stein back in it’s place at his elbow. They all laugh when he reaches for it, makes a disappointed noise to find it empty, and goes back to writing. Burr sits more or less quiet, watching the rowdiness, drinking water to dull the edge of a bit too much whiskey.

He has drills and routines printed out in front of him, a half finished letter to his cousin beneath. He writes, and Hamilton writes, while Hamilton’s friends laugh and drink and argue, and eventually disappear one by one.

He tries not to be so conscious of their solitude.

Burr can hear water sloshing into the large cast iron cauldron as it’s scrubbed. He can hear Hamilton’s quill scraping furiously across the paper. For a while he’s content not to think at all, until around them the lanterns start getting blown out one by one, the stillness beyond the tent tells him it’s quite late, and as aide-de-camps, they both have to rise before the cock crows. Burr reaches over, and only hesitates a second before laying his hand on Hamilton’s elbow.

“Hm?” Hamilton grunts without looking up.

“It’s late, we’d better get going.” Burr says lowly. He lets his hand rest on Hamilton’s elbow, the wool rough, navy colour distinct against his fingers. He jostles him a bit when he doesn’t get up, or acknowledge him. “Hamilton, come.”

“Give me a moment, let me just…” He scribbles furiously, as though the prospect of sleep is just a hurdle in the way of his writing, rather than respite. Burr shakes him again. “Let me finish this thought--”

“You can finish in your quarters, come.”

Hamilton sighs loudly and dramatically, shaking his papers in an effort to speed his drying ink, gathering them into an untidy pile and rolling them in his fists. “If the general is angry at me because I didn’t finish his speech--”

“You can point him in my direction and say it was all my fault.” Burr acquiesces seamlessly. There isn’t even a hint of threat; Hamilton always finishes his writing on time. Hamilton laughs softly and joins him outside. It’s a quiet night, save a few thundering snores echoing throughout camp. The moon sparkles off icicles in the trees, off the thawed and frozen slush. Burr takes a moment to take it in, before moving away.

He pauses when Hamilton catches his arm. “Are we going to talk about it?” He raises one expectant eyebrow.

“About what?” Burr asks too quickly, looking away. He can see the  shadow of a man on watch at one end of their camp, the snap of a branch as some nocturnal creature goes prowling in the woods.

“You know what.” Hamilton replies, removing his hand and stepping away. Burr wants to turn, to run, into the forest or back into the tent, just away from this so he doesn’t have to think, to reply, backed into a corner and pinned by Hamilton’s eyes, by Hamilton’s unintrusive silence.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing happened.”

Hamilton snorts and rolls his eyes. “If nothing happened you wouldn’t have avoided me after.” Burr doesn’t say he was removing himself from temptation, that he was afraid he would have trailed after Hamilton like a stray dog for a scrap of his attention, like Hamilton used to (it seems like centuries ago now), when their roles were reversed. “I remember how you looked that night.” Like a child, Burr wants to hold his hands over his ears and pretend he can’t hear. “You gasped when I touched you.”

“I--” Burr starts, pauses to start again. “Do we need to talk about it? Can’t we leave it?” Because if they talk about it Burr will remember that he wants, he wants so badly. If they talk about it, his resolve will crumble before he can pretend he wants to say no.

It's the light that bewitches him. It's the dim glow of lanterns through the canvas of tents, it’s the quiet and the shush of snow on the ground and Alexander Hamilton’s eyes on him, the orange lamplight and the silver moonlight painting his skin so he looks ethereal, unreal, with his big black eyes. “A gentleman never leaves things half finished.”

“We shouldn't.” Burr says with an air of finality.

Hamilton smiles softly at him, as Burr imagines the snake smiled at Eve, all temptation and promise. “Shouldn't doesn't mean you don't want to. I want to, and I love doing things I shouldn't. So do you want to?”

Hamilton is the goddamn devil, and if anyone finds out, Burr will be cast out of paradise, cursed and tormented. Hamilton is the devil, and here, this thing between them, is the forbidden fruit, and like Eve, Burr is unable to resist.

He doesn't know who he curses more, as he rests his hand against Hamilton's upper arm and leans a little closer to press their lips together quickly. Hamilton, for tempting him, or himself for being weak.

(Hamilton, Hamilton, Hamilton. Alexander fucking Hamilton. He doesn’t know if he’s cursing the name or praying it anymore.)

“That wasn't really an answer--”

“Yes, you smart mouthed bastard. It's a yes.”

Hamilton kisses him gently as a single snowflake, kisses him in the shadows where no one will see, half written papers in one hand and his other wrapped around the back of Burr’s neck to keep him still. It’s a cautious kiss, until Hamilton rips the pretense from it and replaces it with passion, near feverish, moaning softly against his mouth until Burr can't deny him any longer, pressing into it, noses brushing cheeks and breaths coming fast between them.

Hamilton hurriedly shoves his papers in his pocket to free his hand, to rest it against Burr’s chest to feel his soft noises beneath his ribs, his heart beating like a restless bird flapping wings against iron bars of a cage.

“I wanted this since I saw you--” Hamilton whispers as he drops kisses on his face like he’s something precious.

“Shut up.”

“Wanted to get you like this, see you like this, hear you like this.” His hands rub at him over his clothes, so that all Burr wants is to get them off, get them naked, feel Hamilton to his bones--

“Please shut up.”

“Why? Embarrassed like a pure maiden?” Hamilton teases, dips his head to bite the soft skin beneath his chin, as much skin as he can still reach with their uniforms still on. “We both know there's nothing pure about you.”

Certainly not anymore, Burr thinks, left hand clenching in the back of Hamilton's coat, tipping his head back to let Hamilton sink his teeth into his throat, half wishing he pierces the jugular and lets him bleed out over the snow. “Just the same.” Burr whispers urgently, boot slipping a little as Hamilton pushes him off balance. He feels as though all Hamilton does is push him off balance.

“You don't wanna hear the things I composed to whisper to you when I finally caught you?”

For a second Burr thinks he's joking. He leans back to catch his eye, frowning. “You didn't.”

“I did. I wrote about your eyes and your voice, the way you smile when you don’t think anyone’s watching.” Somehow all that's even more embarrassing than the filthy things Hamilton had started whispering. “I wrote about worshipping you with my fingers, being your most arduous slave--”

“Hamilton, please.” Burr interrupts. “Talk less!”

“No.” Hamilton laughs, presses their mouths together so it’s caught between them. He kisses Burr thoroughly, slides his tongue into his mouth, his fingers gentle on Burr’s cheek, their lips moving together with soft shameful sounds. His lips are bitten and chapped, growing moist as they kiss. He catches his lip between his teeth, startling a noise from Burr. He pulls away to whisper against Burr’s panting mouth, “Stop thinking, stop waiting. Give into me, let me give you this.”

“Okay.” Burr whispers back, right hand sliding over Hamilton’s chest to rest daringly low against his belly, throwing caution to the wind, making the first move, opening himself to the possibility of Hamilton pulling away or continuing with his madness. He doesn’t know which option frightens him more.

He comes that night with Hamilton’s voice in his ear as the devil whispered to Jesus during his trials, telling him, “I pictured this, exactly this, but you’re even more beautiful than I imagined. You steal my gaze in a room, steal my thoughts even when you aren’t there, you steal my breath even now. You’re magnetic, captivating, bewitching.”

Aaron Burr comes apart under Alexander Hamilton, his most arduous slave.

 

*

 

They cannot be stopped. Once Burr gives in, he gives himself over to Hamilton’s whims. Hamilton still collects him for breakfast every morning. He still stops him when they see each other in camp with a cheery “Mr Burr, Sir!” but now there is something secret between them. They steal kisses in broad daylight, Hamilton’s fingers find his beneath tables.

It’s all so ill advised, Burr finds himself always on edge, terrified and exhilarated.

Burr doesn’t know which he finds more humiliating, Laurens’ knowing looks, the curve of a smug smile, the green glint of his cat eyes or Mulligan’s gentle teasing, not nearly as subtle, as he loudly makes over dramatic noises whenever he sees them together. Lafayette is more or less removed from the whole deal, busy as he is plotting with Washington, sometimes too busy to even drink with them.

He’s in Hamilton’s hands, and Hamilton doesn’t seem to realize just what this means. He has to clench his hands into fists to keep them from trembling, has to grind his teeth to keep from saying anything. There is no point in telling Hamilton to go slow and careful, to test the waters before they dive in.

Doing this feels a bit like sitting in a wildly careening carriage on a steep and winding mountain road and Hamilton is the driver, turning corners too sharp, urging the horses so fast Burr always thinks any moment they will tumble to their deaths. He’s near paralyzed with the thought of it.

He forgets the fear when Hamilton smiles at him.

“Could you two get any worse?” Mulligan demands, a laugh in his voice keeping it rough and husky.

Hamilton’s nose wrinkles, personally affronted. “Worse at what? We’re not doing anything.”

“If you aren’t careful, the rest of the men will be able to guess.” Laurens says gravely, a direct contrast to Mulligan’s levity.

Burr wonders if he’s terribly obvious to an onlooker’s gaze. He wonders if he looks like a hungry wraith, if he looks like an orbiting star, if he looks like he might actually love--

“Don't get your garters in a twist. It’s not you, it's Alex.” Laurens’ hand smacks across his back, sliding up to his shoulder. Burr frowns, but Laurens isn't looking at him, directing a sharp cat’s smile at Hamilton. “Fawning and staring and sighing fondly whenever you speak.”

“I don't fawn.” Hamilton snaps, cheeks darkening a little, hands fidgeting the way they do when he isn’t telling the whole truth.

“But you admit to staring and sighing when Burr so much as breathes.” Laurens whips back. His hand is still on Burr’s shoulder, strangely over familiar, so that he's stiff beneath the touch. “You look besotted, and you're starting to act it. Err on the side of caution, friend.”

“Caution.” Burr echoes. He’s suddenly grateful Laurens was paying any attention. Maybe Hamilton won't listen to him, but he'll listen to his friend Laurens. Hamilton's mouth is bent in a straight, thoughtful line, considering the ground at their feet. His cheeks are still red, so he looks precious and petulant, like a child caught with a broken vase.

“Caution.” Hamilton grumbles.

“And you!” Laurens turns to start in on him, shaking his shoulder. Burr blinks in surprise. “Stop letting him bully you into embracing like youthful lovers behind the mess!”

“You saw us?” Burr demands, mortified at the prospect, and mortified at Laurens’ choice of words.

“No but your mussed shirtsleeves and freshly kissed expressions always make it clear enough.” His smile twists into something devious, eyes glinting. Burr is torn once again between hating him, and being thankful.

“Oh God.” Burr groans. He wants to hide his face in his hands and disappear. He settles for rubbing at his eyes. “I told you not to kiss me outside.”

“Where's your sense of adventure?” Hamilton replies playfully.

Mulligan crows, “Seems to me you have enough adventure for the two of you.”

“And besides.” Laurens adds to Burr, fingers clenching on his shoulder. “You have world renowned self control. Why don't you try rubbing off on him?”

“I think rubbing off is the precise problem we’re having here.” Mulligan nudges Hamilton in the ribs with an elbow, both eyebrows raised salaciously.

“Oh God.” Burr groans again, and promptly leaves before they can say anything else, their raucous laughter echoing terribly in his ears.

 

*

 

“Are you angry at me?” Hamilton whispers against his shoulder. Burr hums, and finds he has no answer to the question. He feels so many strong emotions about Hamilton any given moment, he can barely separate and distinguish them. They are so knotted together, he finds that even when he picks them apart they are formless and nameless, lacking context and reason, like ripped embroidery that once formed a picture.“For what Laurens said. Are you angry?”

“I’m not angry at him for saying it. I’m angry at you for not realizing until he had to say it.” Burr turns a little, enough to press his lips to Hamilton’s forehead, a bid for peace and quiet and not a war.

“So you are angry at me.”

“I’m not--”

“It’s okay if you are. You’re allowed to be angry, you know.”

Burr bites the inside of his cheek, and considers. “I’m not angry.” Hamilton snorts. “Anger...isn’t the word I would use. I’m just...cautious. I wish you would be cautious. Learn to wait.”

“A thirsty man in the desert is not cautious when he finds an oasis. A starving man is not cautious when he’s invited to a banquet. They do not wait.” Hamilton’s not looking at him, just speaking against his skin in the dark, his words made all the more powerful for it. “I can’t help that I want to kiss you all the time. I can’t help that I don’t want to wait. You’re my nourishment--”

“Talk less, Hamilton.” Burr interrupts.

“You never let me woo you. I think it’s because you’re afraid it’ll actually work.” Hamilton chuckles softly, tossing one leg over Burr’s beneath the covers, arm snaking around his waist to fit all their grooves together, like one mechanism.

“Not a chance.”

“Then let me whisper sweet nothings in your ears. That’s half the point of embracing like this anyway.” He gives a squeeze as though to emphasize his point. He doesn’t wait for Burr to say anything else, just picks right back where he left off, voice growing slightly ragged in a way Burr loves, but can’t articulate, so he just listens. When Burr is half asleep, drifting calmly in some cosmos spun from Hamilton’s breath and poetry, he hears Hamilton say, “I won’t kiss you outside, anymore. But I want you to know I’ll always be thinking about it. Not kissing you will be a harder battle than this entire war.”

 

*

 

He’s in control of this. Proud and smug, he watches the line of Hamilton’s throat as he tips his head back, swallowing thickly, gasping compliments and praise like a hymn. Burr runs the flat of his tongue up the length of his hot, velvet soft cock, sucks a kiss across the dark red, flushed head and tasting precum. He’s clumsy at this, in comparison to Hamilton, but he likes the power, he likes the way Hamilton looks down at him, his eyes so big and black, threatening to draw him in.

“Suck it more, please--”

“Shh.” Burr murmurs, smirking, stroking up and down leisurely. “Take what you get.” Hamilton groans, an exasperated smile twisting his mouth as he gives up, rocks his hips up into Burr’s loose fist to urge him on, only to groan again in pointed frustration when Burr moves with him. He wants to draw it out, wants to drive Hamilton crazy. He goes slow, almost tentative, satisfied with Hamilton’s low whines and stuttered breaths as he sucks his cock down.

He likes the weight of it on his tongue, the way Hamilton moans ever louder, long fingers sliding over his short cropped hair, resting lightly on the back of his neck and just scratching. No longer frantic, he luxuriates in the pleasure Burr offers, resplendent, one hand above his head, fingers knotted in the blanket, clenching and unclenching as his muscles tremble.

He takes what Burr gives him.

There should be shame in this, caught between Hamilton’s thighs, mouth wet, slurping almost hungrily around his cock, bobbing eagerly, near worshipping him. It surprises him to find the shame is small, easily pushed aside when he’s in control like this. Hamilton’s teeth sink into his lip in an effort to stay quiet, desperate noises worked from his throat, quivering now with an effort to stay still, to take what Burr gives him until--

“Oh god, please.” he gasps out desperately, fingers gripping tight around the back of Burr’s neck, spine curling up into a lovely arch. “I can’t anymore, please, just--”

Burr pulls off just to say roughly “Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t know if he likes Hamilton’s strangled sound of relief, or his high whine when Burr sucks his back into his mouth. He wonders what he looks like, lips stretched around his cock, slick with escaped saliva, swallowing him deep and near moaning when Hamilton gives a jerky little thrust, his name stumbling from his mouth.

Hamilton keens behind his teeth as he spills into Burr’s mouth. He hauls him up by the arm and neck, crushes their lips together, moans so loud it seems to echo right through Burr’s bones. “That was phenomenal.” He says emphatically against Burr’s lips, his hands can’t stay still, sliding down his back scratching on the way back up. “You’re phenomenal.”

It’s hard to remember shame, when he’s in control like this.

 

*

 

“Are you following me on my rounds, Mr. Hamilton?” Burr’s mouth tips up with the hint of a smile when Hamilton follows him from the mess, casting a sidelong look at him as he grins and ducks his head. He has a sheaf of papers and a pen in the crook of his arm, and a harried expression, black hair frizzing from its tie in the growing humidity.

“As much pleasure as it would give me, Mr Burr, it’s for business purposes. I’m writing up reports to follow up your inspections.” He gestures with his pen. “His excellency needs me to make appeals to congress, based on the most pressing needs.”

Burr hums. “You’ll find everything is a pressing need.” Hamilton shrugs, because there's nothing to say to that, standing a little back and watching Burr address his men one by one. They meet him all with bright eyes, with tipped chins and straight shoulders, perfectly disciplined. They salute to him, and then to Hamilton.

“At ease.” Burr tells them each with a magnanimous wave.

“Good morning, sir!” A boy chirps. He hasn't seen battle yet, and one of his friends bumps him with an elbow, almost smooth enough to pass for an accident. Burr feels ancient looking at him but he’s barely past twenty. So instead of criticizing the boy for being out of line, Burr accepts the greetings.

“Good morning. I trust everything is in order, private?” He lifts a brow, and the boy has the decency to look mollified, nodding. “Very well. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton will be asking you questions. Please report to him clearly and concisely with as much detail as you can manage.”

“Do you want it concise or detailed, sir?” An older recruit hedges, other soldiers snorting softly behind him. “Pick one.”

Burr pulls a face at the recruit for being cheeky, while Hamilton huffs out an amused noise. “Concise then. We don’t have all day.”

Burr watches Hamilton chat and scribble, pen dipping occasionally into the ink well he holds between two perpetually stained fingers, hunched over his sheaf of paper. Something feels distinctive about the image, it’s the impression he gets when Hamilton opens his mouth to speak, the high excited pitch of his voice he argues, his breathless laughter. Burr looks at his boots in the mud and tries not to think. When they come away, walking between the tents to another area of camp, Hamilton watches soldiers wave at Burr, calling out greetings to him.

“I thought they hated you.” Hamilton gestures back at the men they’ve left with a wave of his pen, and goes back to writing, trailing in Burr’s footprints thoughtlessly. “That doesn’t look like hate.”

“They do. But even the deer respects the wolf that hunts it.”

Hamilton blinks, almost stunned when he looks up, before his mouth splits in a grin. “I didn’t know you were so poetic, Burr! Where were you hiding the talent?”

“Nowhere in particular.” Burr replies flippantly. “But you’re so busy reading me your poetry, I have no time to tell you any of my own.”

Burr expects Hamilton to take mock offense. He doesn’t expect his eyes to go sharp and dark, hooded when he looks at him. He leans closer to say lowly, “then maybe tonight you can be the one to make me melt with your words.”

Burr does not blush. His face does not heat. This isn’t the time, or the place, for looks like that. Then just as soon as it’s said Hamilton looks away and the moment, the heat between them, is gone.

“Is there anything you need here?” Hamilton addresses a physician, as though they’d never spoken, leaving Burr to run the rest of his inspection.

“Everything,” The physician replies dryly. Hamilton makes a distressed noise, makes a note on his paper, and asks the physician to elaborate.

At the end of his rounds, Hamilton catches him by the wrist. He drags him to the tree line, obscured by a flowering bush. the air smells thick with greenery, the sun grows hotter, burr can feel his blood in his veins, loud in his ears when Hamilton looks at him. “Can I kiss you?” For a second, Burr thinks of shaking his head, of saying no. But there’s no one around, and his blood still feels hot and thick remembering Hamilton’s whisper. He thinks of saying no, but he wants it, so instead he leans in, presses their mouths together, savours Hamilton’s surprised little squeak.

Unlike other ill advised kisses, this one remains chaste, just their lips sliding together gently, barely a trace of tongue or a scrap of teeth. Hamilton’s hand slides from his wrist to his hand, tangling their fingers. They part to breathe and press together again, the pliant give of lips, the taste of each other so sweet he forgets there was ever anything but this. Burr sighs into it before pulling away entirely. He reaches up to tuck a dark lock of hair behind Hamilton’s ear, melted by his gentle smile.

“Hamilton.” A voice like thunder booms from behind them.

“Your excellency!” Hamilton, the shameless sinner, doesn't look embarrassed when he steps from behind the bush to meet Washington. Burr tries to match his calm, and disentangles their fingers.

What if he saw?

“The reports?” Washington demands. His eyes don't even stray to Burr.

“Of course sir.”  Hamilton leaves him there, only tossing a sweet smile over his shoulder. Burr counts backwards from ten before he moves again. The sun suddenly seems so cold.

 

*

 

“What is this?” Burr demands when he steps into his tent after his shift on watch, gesturing sharply at a familiar trunk where once, weeks ago, Hamilton dug up a bottle of rum. A portable desk sits beside his own, and Hamilton sits at it, scribbling furiously. Always furiously.

Hamilton glances in the direction he points and looks evenly at him. “It's a trunk, Burr.” he says dryly. “This is a stool. This is paper--”

“Don't get smart with me, why are your things here?” Burr makes sure the tent flap is closed as though that will actually dampen the sounds of their conversation, and tries to rein in his voice, his temper bubbling beneath his skin, always so close to overflowing because of Hamilton.

“I'm moving in with you.” Hamilton beams. “That way I can wake up to your face, and fall asleep to your face, see you--”

Ice water floods Burr’s veins. “You can’t move into my tent.”

“Why not?” Hamilton pouts.

“They’ll know. Everyone will know. Better if we keep some distance between us.”

“I’m here all the time anyway.” In the middle of the night with eyes that look like a prowling wolf’s; always hungry, always famished, striding with purpose to devour him, for any and everyone to see. He stands and looks at Burr with the same purpose, the same ravenous demeanor and fanged mouth.

“Under the guise of friendship.” A lie, a lie, a lie, so obvious it sticks to his tongue and doesn't move. He and Hamilton are not friends, they are earthquakes and hurricanes.

“Then they’ll see our extremely strong and intimate friendship.” Hamilton waggles his brows, stalks closer, stopped only by Burrs palm against his chest. His voice is a low rumble, all heat and intensity.

“No.” Burr says, shaking his head. “No no no, Hamilton, no.”

“I don't understand. There was never any problem with me and Laurens.”

Burr bites back a question about just what Laurens was to him that needed to be questioned. Instead he says, “You and Laurens are close. You've always been close. It's strange, with me, it’s--”

“Why?” The word is so cold and clear it cuts like ice. “Aren't we close? Aren't we always together when a mutual lack of duties permits? Don't we eat breakfast, lunch and dinner together? Don't we laugh together over drinks, don't we go home together?” Hamilton frowns deeply. “Aren't we friends?”

“Shut up Hamilton, for god’s sake. Shut up.” Burr makes a strangled noise of frustration and turns away from him, but even that doesn’t relieve him of his claustrophobic presence at his back.

“I don't understand.” Hamilton's voice pitches up tellingly, sucking more breath in to bellow. He takes one step and spins Burr around to face him, would get in his face if he didn’t keep a hand on his chest. Oh no,Burr thinks. He doesn't want to fight, he wants to flee. He wants Hamilton to realize why this is so dangerous. “I don't understand. I’m not allowed to kiss you, and that's fine. I'm not allowed to stay. I'm barely allowed to speak to you. I can't hold you, and I can't smile at you. You won't give me any part of you. So now when I finally ask for something--”

“Something reckless, something you didn't think about-!”

“All I did was think!” Hamilton shouts back. “I understood why you were being so careful. I knew I couldn't woo you in the public eye. So I thought about it, over and over, trying to sacrifice and compromise.” His voice fades, softer, quieter, his voice less vicious to leave something raw and weary at his feet. “I can't have you out there, so let me have you in here.”

The plea catches in Burr’s chest. He can't move. He lets his hand slip, allows Hamilton to press closer, accepts his kiss with a soft moan, and even softer apology that Hamilton kisses away. “You can't stay.” Burr murmurs against Hamilton's lips. “You can't.”

“I wish my kisses could change your mind.” Hamilton answers, pulling them as close as their limited flesh will allow. “I wish you would let me in.”

“That's the one thing I can't do.” Burr answers, because Hamilton deserves that at least. Hamilton’s next kiss has never been sweeter, or sadder. It means he knows.

This is how they will destroy each other.

 

*

 

Washington holds out his hand for a shake, and Burr takes it firmly. The news of his promotion doesn’t fill him with pride, the way he’d expected it to. But then, when he’d still been working for promotions (before Hamilton, before all this with Hamilton) he hadn’t expected to be rewarded for his excellent service with a back handed slap of a promotion under Colonel Malcolm.

He wonders furiously, as he watches Washington’s impassive expression, just what he’s trying to play at. Colonel Malcolm is useless, ignorant, slow; a position under him means a stalled military career, doomed to regulating the actions of an idiot. Is he being punished? And if so what for?

What for if not Hamilton?

If Laurens and Mulligan could piece it together, why not Washington? Why not when he saw them in the bushes?

“If I may say so, sir, the position you've assigned me cannot be viewed as anything other than a demotion.” Burr stands at military attention, shoulders straight and head tipped up. Washington seems massive, but Burr refuses to let him dominate the room, him, with ease, as he seems to do with everyone else. He challenges him with a careful tone, daring him to say just what this is about, because he thinks he knows.

“You’ll be moved up a whole rank, lieutenant colonel, with command of nearly three hundred men.” Washington answers coolly, as though to emphasize how ridiculous he considers their conversation, how ridiculous he considers Burr. Frustration burns the back of his throat.

“To serve under a man who is colonel in name only.” It takes everything he has not to spit the words for the insult they are, for the insult Washington means them to be.

He’s positive this is because of Hamilton; Washington doesn't like whatever he thinks he sees between them and wants to end it by separating them, dressing it up with a pretty bow and a promotion. He wants to scream in Washington's stoic face. He can't protect his golden child forever. There's nothing between them worth separating them over. There’s nothing between them at all.

This thing with Hamilton is a threat. It makes his skin crawl.

“You hold a strategic position. You’re extremely skilled and disciplined with your men. You are invaluable.”

Burrs fingers ache with the effort to keep them straight. He wants to bristle. Does Washington really think plopping false compliments on top, like drizzling honey over medicine, will help him swallow the frank insult? He can’t exactly slap his hands down on the desk and tell him he’s no threat to his precious Hamilton. “Then perhaps it would be wise to keep my invaluable skills here.”

“No. You've done enough for this camp.” Washington looks down at his desk, and begins to go through his papers. If that wasn't a clear dismissal, he glances up to say, “Congratulations, lieutenant colonel.”

Burr nods, and turns sharply on his heel. He does not storm away. He closes the door to Washington's office with a gentle click, his boots squelch in the mud all the way back to his own quarters. If he were a lesser man, he’d promptly tear the place to pieces. If he were in less control of himself he would scream.

He settles for methodically organizing his belongings, setting them neat and straight with sharp movements. He composes a letter to write to his cousin in his mind, mouths the words to convey them eloquently before they are committed to paper.

Of course Hamilton bursts in, near glowing with his grin. “You had a meeting with the general-- what’s wrong? I thought you'd be happy.”

Burr turns on him, a pair of clean breeches in one fist. “You knew about this?”

“I regulate all of his excellency’s affairs, of course I knew.” Hamilton replies flippantly, lifting one brow. “I was excited for you. I got whiskey, I thought you’d want to celebrate.” he lifts the bottle in his hand and shakes it to illustrate his point.

“He’s insulting me.” Burr near hisses. And it’s all because of you, he wants to say. He hates me because of you.

“He’s promoted you.” Hamilton replies dryly.

“What good is a promotion when I still serve? If I had a command of my own…” he’s starting to eerily echo Hamilton. “But he doesn't trust with my own command. Instead, he insults me by having me train the men, lead the men, but not have the name and status to match my responsibilities.”

“You're lucky you have a command at all.” Hamilton frowns, and Burr remembers suddenly just how badly Hamilton wants to fight, no matter how many times Burr assures him there's no glory in sending men to their deaths, of being responsible, of the ghostly wails of their widows echoing in the night, even when they are hundreds of miles away. “You're lucky your skills are so great the general can’t deny you a position.”

Burr didn’t know Hamilton could be jealous of him. Its an emotion he’s so familiar with he forgot it’s ever belonged to anyone else. A million mean thoughts and words settle on Burr’s tongue, sour and rancid. He wants to ask if this promotion is at Hamilton's insistence. If he used his influence to get Burr this position, out of some misguided attempt to make him happy.

He doesn’t say any of it because he knows it isn’t true. Alexander Hamilton is a man who understands the honour of hard work and merit.

“Don’t bring your problems into this, Hamilton, for once it has nothing to do with you.” Hamilton blinks, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “I should have known you’d take Washington’s side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side, burr.” Hamilton crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes are glinting with that familiar fire of debate. “If there were sides to this, I’d take yours. But there’s not. You were promoted. There’s no secret plot against you.”

Burr bites his tongue, hard. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have taken the promotion with aplomb instead of searching for salt to rub into the wound. “Of course not. I apologize for over-reacting. Shall we open the whiskey now, or share it with everyone?”

“It’s your choice, your whiskey.” He looks like he still wants to fight, but has realized from Burr’s quick acquiescence that he’s an unwilling opponent. “Congratulations, Lieutenant colonel.” He says lowly, a barb like a pen knife between his ribs. Something silver flashes from his hand and lands on Burr’s bedroll. “Your epaulettes.”

“Thank you.” Burr answers with a carefully controlled smile.

 

*

 

When he’s feeling particularly vicious he imagines this is all just some long, elaborate game on Hamilton’s part. Sometimes he thinks Hamilton doesn't want him, he just wants to be wanted. He loves the drama of what they're doing, loves to proclaim himself an arduous slave of love, an obedient servant, And it barely matters to whom he belongs.

It could just as easily be Laurens, Hamilton just happened to have picked him.

None of what they do has anything to do with Burr.

It’s Hamilton. It's all Hamilton.

(He’s perfected lying to himself, he’s made an art form of it.)

 

*

 

Hamilton takes and takes and takes--

There’s the taste of sweat on his tongue and a desperate sound he didn’t know he could make, and a hand hurriedly sliding up his cock, rough with writers blisters, a mouth against his, kissing his moans right from his lips.

He had control once, but Hamilton took it. He had dignity, Hamilton took that too. He had morals, reasons, distractions, Hamilton ate them for breakfast. He had excuses, and Hamilton ate them for lunch. Now Hamilton is eating his moans and his whimpers and his desperate whispers of Hamilton’s god forsaken name for dinner.

“You look so good.” Hamilton whispers against the curve of his jaw just by his ear. He has no idea what Hamilton’s talking about, it’s not like he can really see him in the dark, but he can’t open his mouth to say so without choking on another moan. Hamilton’s cock is hard against his hip, and he fumbles for it, doesn’t want to be the only one left frayed by this encounter. His fingers are so clumsy, not as sure as Hamilton’s, not as experienced, but Hamilton moans just the same, says “Yes, so good, go on--” and strokes him faster so Burr trembles in his hold and tries to jerk up into his fist.

“Hamilton--”

“Yes, I’m here, I’ve got you.” Hamilton’s voice is raspy sin, breath gusting warm against his throat, daringly sucking a kiss there. “You’re almost there, you can come, go on--” His orgasm shudders through him, spilling over Hamilton’s fingers, tasting of relief and grief and regret. Hamilton doesn’t miss a beat, he rucks up Burr’s shirt, presses his hard cock to his sweaty skin and ruts against him, takes his pleasure from his limp, sated body until he whines in his throat and comes, viscous liquid warm against his quickly cooling skin.

He leans down for a kiss, and when Burr turns his face to deny him, presses his lips to the ring of teeth he left on his throat instead. He takes all the affection he wants. He takes on a whim.

It’s hard to tell if he’s still in control when Hamilton takes and takes and takes, and in taking destroys him.

 

*

 

There’s tension between them like a building storm. It looms like a dark cloud, threatening thunder and lightening. Burr holds his head up and waits for it, waits for it to burst into a great deluge, the kind of storm that washes away homes, that buries roads.

They are in the mess, but it doesn’t seem to matter. This is the righteous storm, and it will wash him away no matter where he tries to hide. When it does break, Hamilton promptly grabs the thunder between both hands and roars.

“I’m sick of this.” Hamilton slaps his glass down on the table with a sharp and resounding clack, shoving his stool back to stand so hard it wobbles precariously.

“You’re sick of this?” Burr repeats venomously, scowling.

“I’m sick of you dancing around the problem, acting like nothing’s wrong, smiling at me during the day and fighting me when we’re alone at night. So I’ll ask you once and you had better answer me. What the hell are you waiting for?”

It’s easier to let his mouth curl into a snarl, to stand and meet Hamilton head on, close enough to kiss. Close enough to grip him by the hair and smash his fist into his face. He’s tempted actually, to let his fist fly, to let this devolve into carefully controlled chaos, steered away from the main objective.

“Get off your high horse, Hamilton.” He spits.

Hamilton raises both brows, smirk twisting the corners of his lips. “High horse, Burr? Is that all you got? I call you out on your pandering, on your emotional insincerity, on your downright fear of all the things I can give you, and you tell me to get off my high horse?”

“I’m not waiting for anything.” Burr assures stiffly. “I’m not waiting for you to give me anything, I don’t need you.” He feels like he’s skinned himself, left his insides open to be pecked at by crows. If anything, Hamilton only looks infuriated.

“What do you want, Burr?” Hamilton demands. Hamilton is always demanding, always pushing always testing--

“What do you want from me?” Burr snaps, voice tipping dangerously.

“I want you to be honest. With me. With yourself!”

“I’m always honest.” Burr replies primly. Hamilton sneers at him, chin tipped up haughtily to match Burr’s defensive posture.

“It’s called the lie of omission. You're not honest just because you don’t say anything. You’re sitting there, stopped and stalling and waiting for something right in front of you, and it’s fucking exhausting. I’m right here! So I’m going to ask you again, what do you want?”

Doesn’t he understand the answer to that question terrifies him, more than his grandfather's sermons ever did, more than death ever does? What he wants is nameless and graceless, and Hamilton is trying his damnedest to draw it from him, like poison from a wound.

Suddenly he’s aware of their location.

Men are gathering, watching them argue, and their whispers sound like the crash of tidal waves in his ears. He hasn’t been careful, he hasn’t been cautious. He feels his breath catch in his throat and choke him. Burr can’t answer. He turns and runs and doesn’t stop until he’s back in his tent away from prying eyes.

The whole thing makes him want to itch out of his skin. He paces the small space, from cot to portable desk and back. His hands are shaking and no matter how he rubs them, they won’t stop.

“You’re angry at me.” Hamilton says as soon as he pushes aside the flap to Burr’s tent.

Burr doesn’t have the words to say he isn’t angry. He’s just immensely uncomfortable.  He feels like there’s a blade at his throat, a bullet between his ribs, a sniper’s eyes on him in the dark. He itches terribly, and it’s all Hamilton’s fault. He shakes his head mutely.

“Don’t pretend that you’re not. What happened out there was proof enough. Tell me what’s going on. You’ve been acting strange since--”

“I should never have said yes.” Burr murmurs. He should have learnt his lesson the first time, that he will always grow to regret Hamilton.

Hamilton’s face falls like Burr’s slapped him. Burr steels himself, tries not the feel the earth slipping out from under his feet in a landslide. This is the hurricane he feared, this is the rain and thunder and winds that Hamilton always brings with him. He won’t let Hamilton’s black eyes and sad mouth and hurricane of words weaken him. He grips everything he knows tight between his fingers.

He’s in control.

“Do you regret us, everything we’ve been, until now?”

How does he say yes, he regrets it. He regrets kissing Hamilton, he regrets letting it go farther, he regrets letting him carve his sweet, perfect words into his ribs, so they brand him and leave him visibly damaged.

“I regret it.”

“Do you?” Hamilton presses, voice cool. “Do you actually, or are you just scared of where it could lead us?”

“Both.”

Hamilton doesn’t look as angry at the admission as Burr thought he would. If anything his expression softens. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to say that he understands (and how could he, Burr barely understands) or tell him it’s fine. He takes a slow step closer, and another when Burr doesn’t retreat, and another still until they’re breathing each other. Burr is mortified to find his breathing loud and ragged, and slows it, matching Hamilton’s.

“I’m scared too.” Hamilton says quietly, hands resting gently on either arm.

“You're not scared of anything.” Burr grumbles. Hamilton snorts.

“Then I'll be brave for both of us.”

Burr bites his lip and privately thinks that will not help. He won’t let it. If this is going to destroy them, he would rather break it himself. He is not Hamilton’s star, he is not Hamilton’s obedient servant.

He’s in control.

 

*

 

His heart cannot take it. His heart cannot manage the unrest, the way Hamilton makes his pulse jump and race (and Hamilton knows it does because his tongue always finds Burr’s pulse, leaves marks there, feels exactly what he’s doing to him--), and his eyes can’t unsee Hamilton sneaking into his tent in the dead of night, whiskey on his breath but not drunk, big eyes sultry in the light of the single candle he carries until he blows it out.

He comes to Burr like a hurricane, entitled, certain that Burr will give him this, and this, and this, his skin and his reluctant moans and his fumbling fingers. He comes and takes, positive that Burr will never refuse. He comes to him, crawls over him, devours him whole and spits him back out, breaks him without conscience.  Burr wants everything that he does, and he doesn’t know which of them he resents more for it.

(Hamilton. The answer will always settle on Hamilton. The lie of it is familiar enough now to feel smooth to the touch.)

Now he comes to him, but it isn’t with sultry looks or candles, just despair and a sealed missive from Washington.

“Don’t quit. You’re on Washington’s staff, you can distinguish yourself there. We can work together, he likes you.” Burr doesn’t say that Washington only seems to like him because Hamilton likes him. He doesn't say that Washington doesn't like him at all. “It’s only been a few months, you were just promoted, that’s barely enough time!”

Three months of Hamilton on him, printing himself into his skin with his teeth, with his almost delicate fingers. Three months of Hamilton’s noises against his ear while they rut together with the desperation of animals. Three months of Hamilton making something new of him, a creature he neither recognizes nor likes.

Three months too many, he needs to get away and he needs to do it now.

“I would serve better on the battlefield, Hamilton. You know that. Isn’t that what you yourself want?”

“If this is about us, if this is--” Hamilton pauses, and frowns at him. “I could have been satisfied here, for a bit, with you with me.”

“But only for a bit.” He doesn’t mean to say that out loud, bites his lip to keep him from saying anything else. He doesn’t want Hamilton to be satisfied with him. He doesn’t want Hamilton. He’s always been better at lying to himself when Hamilton isn’t around to underscore the lies for what they are.

“We make a good team.” Burr bites his tongue and wishes he could deny it. This wasn’t the argument he expected Hamilton to make when he heard the news. He expected his poetry, his pleading eyes, assurances of love that heat and freeze him all at once. Not appeals to his ambition. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed. He shoves his things into a rucksack, and finds Hamilton's hands suddenly on his own, fingers wrapping around his wrists. “I wish we could have worked together longer, but I understand why you have to leave.” he presses their lips together, so gently, so fondly. Its just the sound of horses outside, a strong breeze flapping the tent canvas, the two of them on their knees sharing a sweet kiss.

Hamilton doesn't understand why he's leaving at all, if he kisses him like this.

“Let me say good bye.” Hamilton whispers, a surprising note of desperation in his tone. “Don’t let it end like this, don’t let it end bitterly. Let me say good bye.”

Burr feels like no matter what they do, how matter how they go about it, this will only taste bittersweet at best. But Hamilton presses their foreheads together, his eyes half-closed as though in supplication and Burr cannot deny his near pious devotion. “Okay.” He whispers. “Okay.”

Hamilton pushes him back onto his bedroll like he has a thousand times before. He tosses off his waist coat, leaves his cravat open around his neck, shirt unbuttoned so Burr can see this bruises he left on Hamilton’s clavicle. His eyes are so wide staring down at him, as he pushes his shirt up with shyly questing fingers, as though they hadn’t done this past the point of rehearsal. He bends to press a soft kiss to his belly, fingers curling around his hips, urging Burr to lift them so he can pull off his breeches.

His cock flops half hard against his belly, and Burr barely has a moment before Hamilton's mouth is right there, sucking the sensitive spot just beneath the ridge of the head. Burr gasps, “Hamilton!” voice tight with emotion and arousal.

“Alexander. Call me Alexander.”

He doesn’t want to. It makes this feel too real, too close. If he says it, he won’t have deniability. except--  Alexander’s fingers, hurriedly slicked with spit slide behind his balls, rub over his hole. There’s a drag, and he tenses in fear and simultaneously aches for it and whines “Alexander!” in surprise and pleasure.

“Ah, yes, say my name, keep saying it.” He presses a finger in, and Burr babbles something that might be his name, fingers flying to his hair and clutching, one leg stretching open to give him more room, obscene and indecent. He wants more, surprised at himself, at what Alexander’s doing to him.

It doesn’t seem fair that even now, even at the end, Alexander is changing him into something he doesn’t know.

“You take it so beautifully, Aaron, god--” Burr whines, feels Alexander hurriedly spit and push his fingers in, two now, giving him that blessed sought after more. He works them in and out with confidence, opening him up, body eager and hungry for his fingers. Burr makes a pathetic noise, staring at the ceiling, because he cannot bear Alexander’s intense concentration and feverish eyes on him.

He wonders, while he still has some sense of self, if Alexander is trying to memorize him like this. Then the thought is gone when Alexander's working fingers touch something, and his mouth drops open, hips suddenly rolling into his fingers, bearing down, wanting that rush again. “So good--! That was so--!” he gasps out, like it's a surprise to him.

Alexander leans up to press kisses everywhere he can reach, breathes with muted awe and adoration, “You look so beautiful, I bet I could make you come just on my fingers. You could come just like this couldn't you?” Burr barely has the mind to deny it, toes curling when Alexander touches that place inside him again, and again, keeping him riding high on a flood of adrenaline and pleasure. Alexander’s hair is falling loose around his face, and thoughtlessly, Burr reaches up to pull his tie out completely. “Aaron.” Alexander says lowly. “You’re gonna come like this for me.”

Something foreign storms through him, makes him arch and moan. He's graceless and artless, reduced to tingling nerves, thunder storms, a hurricane whipping away all this thoughts. Another finger, sliding far too easily inside him, the threat of pain edging him closer to something so overwhelming. “Alexander--!”

“Come on, let go, want to see you.” Alexander's voice is so rough, it scrapes him, like the scratch of his beard against his belly. “Want to see you.” His orgasm rips through him, takes Alexander's name with it, tears him and makes him anew.

He pants loudly as he comes down, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to make sense of himself again. Alexander shifts on top of him. “Again.” he says simply. Burr swallows thickly and nods, wonders how many times he can let Alexander tear him apart before he can no longer pull himself back into some vague image of himself.

Again. Alexander demands when Burr makes him come with his mouth. Again. He demands when they spill over each others fingers, gazing into each others eyes. Again, until they cannot be sated with each other, hungrier than ever, Alexander panting and pressing kisses to any inch of skin, quiet now that Burr’s wrung him dry. There's nothing left to say though, not even in the silence with no expectations.

Burr wonders if Alexander’s aware this is the first time he's let him stay the night.

 

*

 

Hamilton sees him off at dawn, waves at him sadly. “I’ll write to you.” he promises. and Burr knows he means it, but he can’t say “please don’t” with enough venom to actually stop him.

He won’t let the memory of this ruin him, he won’t let it shape him, he won’t let himself remember it fondly, roll the sweet taste of it on his tongue when he’s alone. If he holds onto any part of this, it will be Hamilton’s words.

 

*

 

_“What do you want, Burr?”_

There are a million answers to that question. He has as many desires as there are stars in the sky and he can bead them together like constellations to make necklaces of the heavens. He wants Hamilton; he wants the taste of him and his poetry in his ear as he drives him half insane, his mouth on his cock, his laughter, his sunshine, his energy, He wants--

_“What do you want?”_

He wants control.

_“What will you fall for?”_

Certainly not Alexander Hamilton.

**Author's Note:**

> So at first i tried to make this really historically accurate. And then i decided fuck it, i'm taking artistic license with this whole mess, by the time you say gay founding fathers you've lost most your historical accuracy anyway (except with Hamilton). So the timeline is really drawn out. Originally this was supposed to take place around late February to march 1776. Now, that time line is a little hazy, but it's sometime from February to maybe may, 1776? 
> 
> This took me like, 10 days to write. so excuse me while i go back to crying over my literal pile of term papers. find me on tumblr: pomplanaki.


End file.
